10,000 Suns

by Michelle L. Levigne

  Elzan wished, not for the first time, that the tradition of the king taking many concubines and producing many sons had never begun. Those who supported the conflict claimed the practice provided the best possible heir, but Elzan saw it only as trouble for the land. Long ago, the king and the High Priestess united in the Sacred Marriage at solstice. There were no Sanctum Brides, no virgin at each ceremony. No concubines and half-brothers to squabble for precedence. The High Priestess’ son was the next king, with no one to contest his claim.

  When had there been a priestess born to the sacred line? Not in two hundred years. High Priest Chizhedek's only daughter had been the hope of those who wanted a return to the ancient ways that blessed Bainevah, but she had been murdered.

  "Rumors say many things,” Elzan said, yanking his thoughts back to the present moment. “The truth always drowns them out."

  Anath snorted. “What is truth? It is whatever the powerful wish it to be. Remember that, when truth and power collide."

  Elzan knew better than to retort. Anath liked to play with words. He was a vicious enemy to have, and a dangerous friend, difficult to keep content.

  Deciding to take his half-brother's words at their opposite, Elzan strode to the door into the King's chamber and rapped once; enough to get the attention of the guard on the other side of the door, but not disturb any discussions or a man who truly felt unwell. The door opened, the guard looked out and beckoned for Elzan to enter. The King expected him.

  Elzan knew better than to glance over his shoulder to smirk his triumph at his half-brother. What game did Anath play? What did he know, and try to use against Elzan? He was glad to know Shazzur returned from his protective exile. Elzan spent hours every moon quarter studying in the Scribes Hall, trying to understand the web of prophecies that guarded and guided Bainevah and the Prophecy now coming to pass. Still, he had little hope of ever attaining the wisdom of the man who had spoken the Prophecy.

  "Welcome Prince Doni'Mayar,” King Nebazz said, standing from the squared horseshoe of tables where he sat with his Council, the Lords of the eight Gates of Bainevah and his surviving half-siblings. “Only good news has come before you, regarding your work with the two Hosts entrusted to you. You please the throne and you serve Bainevah well."

  The door closed with a sharp click. Elzan bowed to the King and bit his lip against a smirk. He hoped his half-brothers had heard that praise. The King was pleased with him, and how often had the King praised his other sons so publicly?

  * * * *

  "Control your dreams. Phrase your prayers carefully,” Challen murmured. She tightened her legs around the lamb's wool-padded saddle and forced herself upright with bruised muscles. The easing of pressure brought a prickling sensation through her numb buttocks. Needles were an improvement, though she vowed she would never sit comfortably again.

  For years, she had read stories where the heroes flew on horseback. The sorry pack mules and shaggy, hardy beasts used by merchants hadn't been enough. Even the soldiers at the garrison hadn't been given beautiful horses for desert patrol duty. She had sighed to see a horse from fable and legend. Riding anything resembling a horse had been just a dream. Until now.

  For years, she had looked across the white-gold horizon to the red razor mountains and wished to see more green and blue than was contained in the oasis.

  For years, she had contemplated her few memories of Bainevah and dreamed about the day she could visit the markets, see the gardens of the palace, walk through the Memory Gate and cross the Loom River to the burial grounds, and burn incense at her mother's grave.

  Now all her dreams would come true. With a vengeance.

  Challen had never truly considered what the words “with a vengeance” actually entailed until now.

  Her father had often warned her to be specific with her words, her dreams and wishes, with her opinions. He had trained her to be a scribe with clear eyes and probing mind. Shazzur had raised her on tales of magic and dealings with the demi-gods to teach her by example. Those who made vague and general wishes got what they wanted, yet never quite what they envisioned. The only way to avert disaster was to be specific.

  For instance, he would tell her: Never wish for merely twenty horses. Wish for twenty brown horses with strong, tested saddles and good shoes. Older than two years, younger than seven. Well trained. With saddlebags full of fresh food, beautiful clothes suitable for travel and weapons for defense.

  "I should have wished for fabled magic carpets to fly us home and buckets of snow to refresh ourselves at every stop,” Challen murmured.

  The background thump-slide of hooves behind her changed tempo. She braced for the nightly attempt by yet another soldier to engage her in conversation and silly contortions of the face. Her father said the young men flirted with her. Challen thought their winks, raised brows and smirks were ridiculous and highly undignified, both for them and for her. Nineteen soldiers. This was their eighth night on the road; soldier eight would now try to engage her interest. Challen wondered why the previous seven didn't warn their fellows not to bother her.

  She dug her heels into her horse's sides and urged it up alongside her father. Shazzur rode in the lead with Commander Asqual from the moment they left their resting place at dusk until they made camp at dawn. They talked constantly, Shazzur asking about the kingdom and Court and Asqual answering in details thick with his opinions.

  "An hour earlier than usual.” Shazzur nodded to her, then glanced back at the soldier she had left behind.

  He never teased her about her suitors, but Asqual grinned every time she used their company as protection. Challen suspected the big man seriously wanted to marry her off before they reached the end of their trip. He was proud of the men under his command, and she could understand why he believed a soldier in the Host of the Ram was the best possible husband for a girl to have. Still, why couldn't he command his men to give her breathing room? She was going to Bainevah; she wanted years to roam and explore and taste before she settled down. She was her father's right hand, more knowledgeable about the Prophecy than anyone in Bainevah except Shazzur—why couldn't she have ambitions beyond capturing a man's passion?

  Moons of work and study waited for her. While her father spent his days at the King's side, re-learning the pulse of the kingdom, Challen would live in the Scribes Hall, studying the scrolls denied her all her life. She would speak with the scribes and seers and distill their knowledge for her father's use. They had planned this for years. Knowing what she would have to do to aid her father, Challen paid careful attention to everything Asqual said and analyzed it against what she knew.

  The Three lived in the mountains north and west of Bainevah, inside a maze of twisting canyons in the appropriately named Hidden City. They served Mother Matrika as her prophets; spinning, dying, and weaving vast tapestries to foretell the world's destiny. Yet in the centuries since the mortal family had been rewarded with semi-deity status for their sacrificial service to Mother Matrika, they had gradually stolen worship from her. Shazzur had warned against it. Naya had spoken so energetically against worshiping the Three, she had died for it.

  Others had taken up the call to repentance and a return to the ancient, pure ways, when Naya died and Shazzur fled into exile with their daughter. They believed Mother Matrika would punish Bainevah. The Priesthood, including High Priest Chizhedek, supported the teachings, but it hadn't been enough to turn the people's hearts. It pleased Challen to learn Prince Doni'Mayar and his mother both openly held such a view. The prince had been her father's pupil. She had grown up hearing her father reminisce about the bright boy who had valued his studies as much as soldiering. Yet despite everything the Priesthood and even the royal family had done, it wasn't enough to avert disaster. The Three, the Hidden City, and their priests had vanished. And now the Sacred Marriage had failed.

  One failure was a warning. If the Sacred Marriage at winter solstice failed, would Bainevah vanish? Would it be too late? Would the King be sacrificed
, as in the ancient times of darkness and savagery?

  Challen felt chilled as she listened to her father and Commander Asqual discuss that possibility. They pondered which faction in the Court would gain dominance, which would put the prince of its choice on the throne, and how much the resulting chaos would harm the kingdom. Where would her father be? Perhaps destroyed with the king he served?

  She listened, ordering her thoughts and questions as Shazzur had taught her. “The Mother gave you two ears, two eyes and a brain ten times larger than your mouth,” he often told her, eyes bright despite his serious words. “Speak in just such proportion to what you see, hear, and think."

  "Five more days?” Challen asked, when Asqual paused to check their path by the stars nearly two hours later.

  "Five if we don't run into distractions.” Shazzur tipped his head back to look at the streaks of light across the sky. The first hints of dawn glowed pink and purple and green along the horizon to their right.

  Distractions were dust storms, other travelers asking for directions, supplies or protection, or bandits demanding more.

  "We're turning a little too far north,” Challen said, after glancing upward and orienting herself to the Summer Star.

  Asqual opened his mouth to respond, then frowned and glanced at her and pulled out his ombra. Part compass, part sextant, it carried a bit of enspelled silk which pointed directly to the heart of the palace and changed color if they were off track.

  "For a girl who has never been anywhere...” He sighed and his frown melted into a grin. “You have your lady mother's gifts, Kena'Shazzur'Challa'Naya."

  "Thank you, Commander,” she responded with a slight bow from her saddle. To use her pedigree name complimented her parents. “Perhaps someday I may serve with you as she did."

  "Hah! Every gray hair I wear came from worrying about her safety. And knowing your father would call down curses on me if anything happened to her.” He cast a sideways glance at Shazzur.

  "My dear Naya was full of gifts, not all of them so worrisome as you remember,” Shazzur said with a smile that spoke the years of shared history between the two men. Challen was glad once again her father could return to his former place.

  He had counseled her often not to rage against the tragedy that had struck them—her mother's death, her brother's kidnapping—but to see such changes in the river of their lives as gifts, and be glad for the years of quiet study and shelter from Court life. She tried to be grateful, but how could she be grateful for what did not trouble her if she had never experienced that trouble?

  "Will you be a Sanctum Bride like your mother?” Asqual asked.

  "I hope not.” Challen quelled a shudder.

  "Challen doesn't want to marry. She wants to be my assistant forever.” Her father chuckled. “I think the idea of participating in the Sacred Marriage frightens her."

  "Father!” She closed her eyes, wishing away the heat in her face.

  She thought of the soldier who had tried to approach her. By the prickling in her back, she knew he watched, waiting until he could approach her again. He had learned nothing from his friends’ failures. She had no patience for fools. Unthinking, she transferred the heat from her face into his helmet.

  A muffled curse and the thump of bronze against the cold desert sands told her she had succeeded.

  "Challen,” Shazzur scolded, grinning. “I applaud your control, but your use of the Mother's gifts needs refinement."

  "She's doing me a favor,” Asqual said. “That one is determined to be the father of a nation before he passes on to Mother Matrika's arms. But seriously, to serve as a Bride is an honor. Men will clamor to take you as wife."

  "I'll only be allowed to marry a nobleman, and he'll want me to be an ornament,” Challen said with a sigh. “He won't let me continue my studies or serve as a healer as my Mother did. That's the problem. Losing my virginity to the king has nothing to do with it."

  "It is ultimately your choice,” Shazzur said. “You forget, Naya refused all suitors when she left the Sanctum. She served as a healer and spy during the war with Dreva. Where would I be, where would you be, if she had not gone against all tradition?"

  "In a way, Mother began a tradition which I could follow?” Challen smiled at that thought.

  Behind them, the chastised soldier scooped up his helmet and remounted his horse as his companions passed him. There was silence beyond the thump-slide of the horses’ hooves on the cold sand. No teasing, no chuckles. Challen imagined the soldier intimidated his fellows with his scowl.

  "Think of the benefits if you do go to the Sanctum,” Asqual continued. “Only two maidens are chosen each year. You might never go to the Chamber of the Suns. Your dowry comes from the king's treasury. For whenever you choose to marry, or not marry,” he added, with a grin directed at Shazzur. “The blessings of Mother Matrika rest on you and your children."

  "The blessings didn't keep my Mother alive.” Challen studied her fists clenched around her horse's reins.

  "I believe Matrika took her to protect her,” Shazzur said with a sigh. “I know my Naya still serves, in other ways, and I know we will be reunited someday. Death is only a doorway, my child. Remember that."

  "What happened to the Bride at solstice?” she asked, to fight off the shiver that came from her father echoing the words her mother had spoken in that last dream.

  "It is uncertain,” Asqual said a little too quickly.

  "Uncle.” She felt no guilt using that term of affection to command him. It had taken one day to learn Commander Asqual could deny her nothing when she addressed him so.

  "She ... is dead. Whether suicide or murder, it was still undecided when the King sent us to fetch you,” he admitted after a few seconds of harp string-tight silence. “What little the dogs left was barely worth examining."

  "Some would think being devoured by dogs is a sure sign of the Mother's disfavor,” Shazzur said with the concern of one asking for salt.

  Challen shuddered. Had someone murdered the girl because she had been impure? Or to hide some failing in the King? Or had she killed herself in guilt at failing Bainevah? Did she know some terrible secret and enemies feared she would tell?

  Challen knew she would be offered the honor of being a Sanctum Bride because her mother, Naya had been one. She would refuse. It was her right.

  CHAPTER 4

  "Nine princes, three princesses,” Challen muttered an hour later, after she had dropped back behind her father and Asqual to study a scroll. “Why learn their names? I will never go to Court. The King's children will not seek me out as a friend, so what does it matter?” She snorted, amused at how her horse's ears twitched in rhythm with her grumbling.

  The King's Council, however—those names were important. The Lords of the Gates did not inherit their posts but were granted their positions as they proved themselves of service to Bainevah. Each Gate governed a section of the city, and had its own Host to protect it, each commanded by one of the King's brothers or sons, in partnership with a seasoned, proven soldier. The North, Water, East, Memory, South, River, Merchants, and West gates. To round out the King's Council were his three surviving half-brothers and two sisters—High Priest Chizhedek, Cho'Mat of the Scribes Hall, Commander Asqual to represent the armies, and the King's scribe, Abendago.

  Shazzur would return to the Council as King's Seer. Asqual had very carefully not said what had happened to the last in a long line of priests and scribes who had tried to replace Shazzur in the last fifteen years. Challen did not want to know, and she was only partially amused that her father had not asked, either. Then again, for all she knew, Shazzur had seen it in a vision and didn't need to ask.

  "There is a good spot.” Asqual stood in his stirrups and gestured toward a blot on the horizon, which Challen hoped was an oasis. Last night's camp had been around a spur of rock that provided changeable shade as the sun traveled the sky. She prayed for trees and pools of water, maybe a few birds.

  As the silvery glow on t
he horizon changed to purple and rose and then to gold as day crept in, the blot resolved into an oasis. Challen smiled, though it made her dry lips crack. The horses moved faster, smelling water and greenery. She smiled at the soldiers who rode alongside her now, their traveling group losing its disciplined order in the rush to reach their goal.

  She had temporarily forgotten about the soldier whose helmet she heated, but when she dismounted at the edge of the oasis, she braced for the next attempt. Why did these soldiers play their silly courting games with her? Didn't they have sweethearts and wives waiting for them? Why trouble her? Why return for one rebuff after another? Why couldn't they leave her alone to live in her father's shadow as a scribe, as she wished?

  "Lady Kena'Shazzur?” The soldier in charge of the horses approached her. He held out a hand for her horse's reins and didn't look directly at her.

  "Thank you, Ballon,” Challen said. She liked the dark-skinned young man, scarred from the hooves of pain-maddened horses. Ballon didn't court her, but told her about his sweet, quiet wife and twin sons waiting at home.

  The horseman grinned and nodded over Challen's shoulder once before he led the mare away. Challen sighed, knowing it for a warning that someone waited to catch her alone.

  "Father?” She hurried through the soldiers unloading the tents from the backs of the mules.

  The man behind Challen didn't follow. She felt no prickling of gazes trying to pierce her desert robes. This sense of warning, according to her father, was not an ordinary thing among young women. Was it a gift, inherited from her mother who had spied behind enemy lines? Or merely a result of having lived so isolated all her life?